Artham Ekaitz - Measured Ravening

[Valawyn]

Artham Ekaitz​

Age: Late 30s, early 40s.
Build: Middling. Fit, given his age and profession.
Height: Roughly six feet with the boots, a bit under without.
Demeanor: Friendly, open, courteous, driven
Appearance: Ostentatiously dressed in vibrant crimsons, deep blacks and glittering golds. Fond of large hats. Frequently seen with one or more thick tomes on his person.

Original Document

Measured Ravening
​

A streak of red and black went skittering down the wide, sloping stone hallway. High - arguably excessively high - boots frantically clacked against the hard surface that had lain dormant for countless years. The clicking of bootheels was barely audible, however, given the cacophonous din that came straight after.

“It was just a book! A book! Why would they use the rolling boulder trap for just a book?!” Panted the finely-dressed man, after having found a bit of crumbling wall to lodge himself into. He clenched his eyes tightly shut as the roaring of a rolling, stone death-trap hurtled past, carrying with it a veritable blizzard of dust and debris. After a moment to catch his breath and clear the air, he stepped free of his hiding place and held up his prize. “Just a book.” He paused, staring for a moment, his breathing still labored. “Must be a hell of a book. Gods above.” He chuckled to himself, the adrenaline slowly fading and the relief of not visiting Kelemvor settling in. “A hell of a book,” he said again, fanning himself with an ostentatious and wide-brimmed black hat, replete with fluffy feather. He gingerly picked at the lurid crimson-red of his blouse as it stuck to him with sweat. This dig had been rough on him. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered to himself.

He turned to face the direction from whence the boulder came, and grinned wide.

“Key word being getting. Rolling boulder! A classic. Love that one. Never works, except when it does.” His grin held firm as he began picking his way back up the slope, stepping over dislodged stone and debris. His gait was steady and strong and full of confidence.

Right up until everything turned pitch black.

“Oh, bollocks,” came a voice in the dark, followed by a similar voice which held the faintest edge of power.
“Fortano! Fordygema!” At this, light once again sprang forth from the red-and-black clad gentleman’s finery, and with it, a return of the wide smile. He patted his satchel with some satisfaction and said “Let’s see if we can’t find you some worthy company, book.”

 

[Valawyn]

Several hours later - exactly how many was impossible to tell - a black, feathered hat poked out of a crudely-dug tunnel, followed by a pair of black gloves and bright, crimson-red sleeves. The finely-dressed gentleman hauled himself up and out of what amounted to barely more than a hole in the ground and lay on the cool, damp grass. He had only the strength and energy to haul himself halfway out in one go, and so he took a moment to lie face-down in the grass, still half dangling in a hole, legs kicking with what would appear to be child-like glee. Lazily, arms leaden with exhaustion, he unhooked a leather strap from his shoulder and hauled the satchel it was attached to up and out of the hole, tossing it unceremoniously on the ground a few feet in front of his prone form. When it landed, it seemed to bounce strangely and rustle, but this did not surprise him, given all the bits-and-bobs he had brought back with him.

“Gods above I am tired,” he muttered, wriggling back-and-forth on the grass in a weary attempt at crawling the rest of the way out of the pit he’d put himself in. After what could only be described as an ‘awkwardly long’ time of this, he was free, and pulled himself up onto all fours, crawling over to his satchel and collapsing onto his back alongside it, staring up at the stars. “Wasn’t it night when I went in? Does that mean I was quick or exceptionally slow?” He ran a black-gloved hand through his ruddy-brown, almost-ginger beard. Flecks of white had begun to show in that vibrant crop of hair, and the gentleman had told himself it made him look more distinguished. “I’m going to say I was quick. Well done, Arty, you are an inspiration to archaeologists the world over, truly.” He chuckled to himself, but then groaned at the aches that had begun to set in now that he was sedentary. “Ah, but perhaps not.” Weakly, he lifted his head from the dew-damp grass and pulled the exceptionally wide-brimmed hat off, setting it instead upon his stomach. At the same time he pulled his satchel over to act as an impromptu pillow. He stayed in this position for many long minutes; he knew not how much time he was frittering away. The night was growing darker, and his Light enchantment had long since faded. He stared up at the stars, a gentle smile affixed, unmoving, upon his face. Any onlooker would be forgiven for mistaking him for the very picture of serenity. A closer look, however, would see them changing their minds. His smile, while genuine, was marred by a mournful note, which seemed to run deep along the weathering of the man's face; a regret which seemed manifest within the crease of his brow. His eyes stared up at the stars, and while he saw them, he was not looking at them. Instead, his mind's attention was turned inward, as it so frequently was during times of quietude and contemplation. He kept as busy as possible to minimize these bittersweet moments of torturous serenity, but they had a habit of creeping up on him.

And so it was that he found himself lying in the grass, damp with sweat and dew, staring at the stars, the scent of remembered blood filling his nostrils and the sky blurring as his gaze grew watery.

​

"I cannot repay you for this, Arty," she said with a noticeable tremor in her voice. She was trying to maintain her composure but only partially succeeding.
"I will not hear any more of this payment talk. I told you, I had some spare lumber and a few nails. Really, you're doing me a favor by helping me offload this otherwise useless material!" Came the man's reply as he crouched alongside a once-fine crib which had slowly been worn down to a rather sorry state by many years of use and neglect.
She heaved an exasperated but grateful sigh and wrung her apron with slightly less fervor.
"Honestly, it's a very simple fix to keep it sturdy; couple reinforcing boards here and there, replace a few rusty fasteners and you're all set. It won't be as pretty as the day it was built, but it'll keep your youngin' from having a midnight tumble." He glanced up and from behind a sweat-tangled shock of ruddy copper-brown hair and gave the woman a reassuring wink.
"Thank you, Artham. Truly," she reiterated stubbornly.
"Yems, yems, mou're melcome," he replied with a playful roll of the eyes, several nails pinched between his lips and hammer in hand. A few noisy minutes later and his work was complete.
With a satisfied appraising knock, Artham said "Right! No baby's falling through that! And if they do, I will have several questions regarding what you're feeding them." He permitted himself a hearty guffaw before beginning to gather his things. After a moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder, followed by a question: "Won't you at least stay for dinner?" She asked, an edge of desperation in her voice.

He finished stuffing things back into his bag, a gentle smile on his face. He looked up and, softly and warmly, replied "No, Annora, I will not. You are eating for two, now, and we still do not know if your husband's vessel survived the storms upon the Trackless Sea. Every penny counts." As he spoke, he lifted the crib and set it back upright, shaking the bedding free of dirt and sawdust before settling it back into its rightful place. "For what it's worth, I sincerely hope he returns to you safe and sound." He flashed her a warm smile and reached for his hat; a simple brown leather affair meant mainly to keep the rain from his eyes.

"Besides, I need to rehang your neighbor's door again before I head home for the night. Seems he got into a fight with the knob while drinking, this time."
With a smile and a wave Artham stepped backward out into the drizzling night, the door clicking closed as he went.

The woman, Annora, maintained her composure until she went to straighten the blankets in the soon-to-be-filled crib and found the pair of large, gold coins tucked into the blanket's hem.

She wept herself to sleep alongside the crib, her emotions a confusing swirl of relief, gratitude and dread.

​

He had described his last stop that night as being a "neighbor" of Annora's, but in truth, the two lived a fair distance away from one another. It was already late in the evening, and the sun shone sparingly an angry reddish orange from the gaps between buildings, its light nearly parallel with the sea, setting the water ablaze in glorious bloody-golden hues which Artham had never grown tired of.

Prying his eyes away from a slim view of the water, Artham set his bag more securely upon his shoulder and strode off into the oncoming dusk.

As he walked, he could not help but ruminate upon the future of the woman whose home he had just left. Those storms upon the Trackless Sea were vicious things, and those which had come ashore had wreaked havoc upon dock and home alike. Lives had been lost even here upon solid ground. The fact that Annora's husband manned a comparatively humble ship - a Barque, if memory served - did not bode well for his chances of survival. What, then, would become of Annora? If patterns held true… he grimaced at the thought. Too many widows had been left to sell the only thing they had in order to survive; their children growing in a home with a revolving door of cruel, male strangers. His teeth ground together as he walked, his steps quickened by the disquiet in his heart, as he wrestled with a problem far greater than he.

He was startled out of his unpleasant meditations when he walked straight into the back of a lanky man who had been standing, chatting with two fellows. Artham glanced around, realizing he'd wandered off course, even as the man he had bumbled into wheeled around.
"My apologies, my mind was miles aw-" he was cut off by a shove and a slurred shout: "You's lookin' fer a fight'r somethin', mate?"
Artham held up his hands placatingly, giving the man a winning smile, "Heavens, no, sir. I simply let my mind wander like a git; honest mistake, for which you have my sincerest apologies."
Another man, circling around to Artham's left piped up, then, "Wondering what the git's got in 'is bag, I am."
Immediately after, the third, a younger and smaller man, snaked out a hand, lifting the flap of Artham's satchel, flashing a wicked grin when the bag's owner slapped the probing hand away. "Looks like he's got some nice tools on him. Worth at least a night's drinks, I'd wager."

Artham took a steadying breath, "Gentlemen, if it's coin you seek, you are welcome to the contents of my coinpurse, but the tools I must humbly request remain with me."

"Don't think so, y'fancy-talkin' whoreson." Said the lanky man, eliciting a pair of wicked chuckles from his fellows.

Artham's mind raced. He had been living in Luskan for many years at this point, and was neither unaccustomed to the nature of the streets nor a small man. Despite his proclivities being largely of a studious bent, he had always loved working with his hands, and his years of carpentry had done wonders for keeping his bookish nature from leaving him feeble.

Thinking fast, and realizing that two of three men were now situated roughly to his rear, there was really only one answer:

Artham set his shoulder and charged, checking the significantly lighter and visibly inebriated man directly in the chest with an audible exhalation, leaving him wheezing and gasping on his back. Artham heard inarticulate shouts and the sound of rushing feet as he turned. The larger and older man had been surprisingly quick to react and was already upon Artham as he turned to face his attacker. A desperate hop backward is all that kept a flash of silver from spilling his entrails all over the winded man at their feet.

He had to act fast, and he knew it. His right hand reached into his bag, muscle memory serving up his hammer immediately, which he used in a desperate but surprisingly effective parry, slamming the incoming knife hand down, crushing bone and tearing flesh. The blade plummeted, catching the winded man in the back of the shoulder as he had been climbing to his feet. A shriek of pain and desperate scrambling erupted as the two wounded men fled past Artham, out the darkened alleyway in the direction Artham had been heading to begin with.

The younger man remained, standing with a relaxed posture, his blade back in its sheath for the moment. Artham's breathing was labored, hammer bloodied, but otherwise unharmed. The younger man simply held up his hands and smirked, gesturing as if to invite Artham to be on his way. He then began taking cautious steps backward, away from that bloody hammer.

Artham took another deep, steadying breath and turned to leave.

The moment he turned - foolish! - he heard the sound of rushing feet. Artham continued his turn full circle, hammer held out low and defensively in a backhand swing, aiming to block an incoming blade.

What he caught instead was the side of the young man's skull, the claw of his hammer punching into his temple as he flew through the air. The young man had tried to bowl Artham over while he was off guard, and had gone low. By sheer chance and chance alone, he had aligned his skull with Artham's backhand parry. The boy's momentum carried him through, knocking Artham off his feet.

The boy's glassy eyes stared up at Artham as the two lay upon the cold cobblestone of the darkened alley, and Artham screamed.

 

[Valawyn]

​

"No!" Came the cry, desperate and confused, as Artham sat bolt upright in the damp grass, the stars above only just now growing dim as sunrise began to threaten to outshine them.

Just the dream again.

No, dream was not the right word.

A memory in the night.
Crystal clear and agonizing.
A reminder of his failure.
Of his impotence.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and rolled first his neck, then his shoulders. He was stiff and sore all over, and his clothing clung to him in an unpleasant, clammy-feeling fashion. "Artham, you old fool… falling asleep in the grass like a drunkard." He sighed quietly to himself as he ran through a mental checklist, patting down his pockets, checking his satchel and then finally stuffing his hat back upon his head. "Lucky I didn't wake up to a slit throat. No telling who roams around out here…"

He continued to mutter various chiding, scolding phrases and tones to himself for his recklessness as he attempted to put the unpleasant dreamt memory from his mind. This did not prove overly difficult, as he was very much in uncharted territory. Or at least, as far as he knew, the territory was uncharted. Even so, the possibility of dangerous local inhabitants was ever-present in the back of his mind. Out here in the foothills between ranges of the Sword Mountains, he was hundreds of miles from the nearest civilization worth mentioning. His trek had not proven worthless, as he had found what his research suggested he might: the ruins of a small, Dwarven settlement, running beneath the steeply rolling hills at the feet of the Sword Mountain ranges. It would appear that a splinter group at one point had broken off from the fabled and recently-restored Gauntlgrym and had settled in this uneven valley. With clever tricks, an unhealthy sum of research and a heaping spoonful of blind luck, he had found a tunnel connecting to the subterranean splinter-group's home near the surface, and thus, tunneling down and into the complex had proven easy enough for one man to do. At this recollection, he turned his head to the side to look upon a pile of debris which had at one point been three separate, perfectly good pickaxes. He frowned, and an irritable thought meandered through his mind. Damned Dwarven stonework. He sighed again, shaking the momentary irritability away; he actually admired a great deal about Dwarven cultures. The commonly-shared broad strokes alone impressed him. They truly had a way with stone, and while he was no architect, he was educated well enough to be frequently impressed aesthetically and on a technical level by both the ruins and the living settlements he had explored. Having spent many years tending to the ramshackle huts of his neighbors in Luskan, anything of meaningful permanence held a newly appreciated gravity, in his mind. A thunderstorm could wash away half of the homes in his neighborhood all at once, if given the chance. But even the most humble stone halls of the Dwarves would weather all but the most catastrophic of natural disasters.

His cart was packed before he knew it, and he pried himself away from his thoughts to focus on the task at hand: motivating his horse. He called Geoffrey a horse, but truth be told he could not be completely certain it was not a transmogrified donkey. Geoffrey's stubbornness seemingly knew no bounds, and Artham had on more than one occasion lamented that he could be all the way to Calimshan by now, if Geoffrey would only move his mangey arse.

Geoffrey was feeling fighting fit and true to form this morning, having been left to graze and relax for a full day on a wide tether.

Artham, hands on his hips, eyed the donkey-horse from beneath the brim of his hat.

"We're ready to be off. You'll be leading the way, as per usual. That's how this works. No funny business, right?" A black, gloved finger pointed accusingly at the horse, eliciting a single stomp of a hoof.

Geoffrey looked bored.

"I mean it. If I come over there to attach your harness to the cart and you bite me, I shall prestidigitate every meal you eat to taste like soap for a month."

Geoffrey stomped again, his eyes narrowing.

Artham approached, lifting the lightweight cart's arms and reaching for Geoffrey's saddle.

In a blaze of brown and crimson and teeth, Geoffrey clamped down on Artham's bright red sleeve, and, with a bored expression, held on for several seconds.

"For the love of the gods, you demented donkey-beast, leave off! Leave off! So help me!" Artham shouted, batting frantically at Geoffrey's snout with the reins. After being flicked several times, the horse released its grip, leaving a noticeable dent in Artham's forearm where the horse's blunt teeth had clamped down.
"I do not like you," he hissed through his own gritted teeth, as he finished rigging the cart up to leave.

Geoffrey, for his part, seemed thoroughly pleased.

Taking his place upon the seat of the modest cart - which was larger than most, but still far smaller than a wagon - he took a deep, steadying breath, massaging the soon-to-be-bruised flesh of his bitten forearm. "I really must befriend a Druid so that they might ask what in the name of the gods has driven you mad." Flexing his fingers as if to test that they still worked, he grabbed the reins and gave them a light flick. Geoffrey responded immediately, the horse's massive frame veritably rippling as muscles sprang into action.
Ill-tempered though the horse was, Artham could never accuse the beast of being anything other than a marvel of nature. The massive creature barely seemed to feel the burden of cart and rider placed upon him, as if Geoffrey were the physical embodiment of freedom itself; purpose-built to move as the wind does. Indeed, on several occasions, Artham had nearly lost his hat as Geoffrey exploded into a full gallop without warning; it was as if the horse could barely contain itself in a world which moved so much more slowly than he.

In spite of himself and his aching arm, Artham found himself smiling at the thought. What better traveling companion on a long road than one who wished to seize the horizon by force of passion alone?

Artham glanced back at the contents of his cart, and - surreptitiously, so as to not clue the horse in on what he was considering - unfurled a heavy leather cover, cinching it down over top. As he turned back forward, he grabbed the reins once more, pulling back ever so gently. As he did so, Geoffrey's head reluctantly rose up and back toward his rider.

Leaning forward, Artham spoke quietly.
"So, my belligerent friend, you wish to race the sun itself?"
He received a snort in response, as well as the tiniest of hops, mid-stride.
Artham smiled wider and moved a hand from the reins to the top of his head.
"Come, then! Let us snatch the horizon from under its nose!" With a flick of the reins and a shout, Geoffrey was set loose. Hooves pounded at a breakneck pace, the cart holding together despite unspeakable abuse. Artham could not sit for fear of his spine being reduced to dust, and so he crouched, one hand holding his hat in place, the other hand giving gentle guidance with the reins, as this flesh and bone beast of the wind carried him - at a mad dash - unto road's end.

​

 

[Valawyn]

A gentle crackling was the only thing which broke the quiet stillness of the night air, Geoffrey's labored breathing having long since subsided. The great beast lay on its side alongside the fire, all pretense of majesty or dignity dropped in the face of voluntary exhaustion. Near the horse's head was an overturned bucket, the contents of which had been greedily slugged down when the pair had first stopped to make camp. Geoffrey's snout still shone with moisture in the moonlight; Artham was unsure if the horse had gotten more water in or on himself. The gentleman simply shrugged and smiled quietly to himself as he stared into the modest flames of their campfire. It was chilly, and so his hat remained atop his head, and his cloak was pulled in close and forward around his shoulders.

He pried his eyes from the flame of the campfire and stared instead up into the night sky, its light comparatively crisp and cool. It was moments like these which filled him with serenity and certainty. He had made the right decision, those years ago.
He had decided to flee. To run from the consequences of his actions. From the stare of glassy eyes. From the cries of fatherless babes, untended in their makeshift cribs.
Artham knew what he had to do.
At his core, Artham knew what he was.

A coward.

​

"So, you thought you could hit three of my men, and even kill one, and we wouldn't come for you?" Asked the blurred silhouette. A sharp movement to the side was followed by an eruption of purest agony, as a fist slammed once more into Artham's stomach. He wheezed and moaned unintelligibly, held aloft by two armed men at his sides. The one who had struck him took a step back, revealing the silhouette which had spoken once more.
"You know what we usually do to folks who get so uppity?"
There came a smattering of sinister chuckles at this question, and Artham limply lifted his head, barely able to make out even the basic shape of a man through tears.
The silhouette leaned closer and elaborated, "We gut them and dice 'em up and sell them as chum to the crews down at the docks. All the identifiable bits get thrown in a furnace. No one ever sees 'em again, and the last thing they do is make us money. Poetic, if you think about it."
Another round of laughter; this time, more enthusiastic.
"So that's where we are now, Artham. That's your name, I'm told. Artham Ekaitz. You mind if I call ya Arty? We're gonna be getting real closely acquainted, I think. You wanna know why, Arty?" The silhouette paused cruelly, to allow Artham time to respond. The beaten man could only muster a wheezing, wet whimper.
"That's right, Arty. You're gonna pay me back for my losses! You ain't as dumb as I thought you were! Here's the catch, though… ya see, either you bring me three thousand coin - one per head, 'cause I had to kill the other two as well - or we get our money's worth out of your hide, your home, and your neighborhood. Are we understood?" Another pause.
Artham weakly nodded.
The silhouette nodded in return, then stepped back. "Stop just before he's dead, then call for the guard. They'll patch him up." There was a dismissive wave as the man walked away; as he did so, a new shape blocked Artham's vision, and with it a return to a world of pain.

​

 

[Valawyn]

​

Artham woke with a start. He had apparently fallen asleep in his seated position by the fire, and his body wasted no time in emphatically reprimanding him for his foolishness. Bones ached and muscles burned; every inch of him felt as if Geoffrey had been dancing upon it. He gingerly unfolded himself, shaking the morning dew from his oil-slicked cloak. Every movement was agony and eventually he found himself simply lying spread-eagle upon the dusty earth he had set their campfire upon. He took a long moment to turn his attention to each muscle group, consciously relaxing them and breathing slowly. What I would give to knock a few decades off this body, he thought to himself. He recalled what the morning after a dig and ride like he’d just had would have been like, once upon a time. He would likely already be on the road, recovered tomes upon his lap and the bench seat of his cart, busily scribing things into his own spellbook or translating various passages that caught his eye. Nary a thought would’ve been spared for the exertion he had engaged in the night prior. He missed those days, but would not willingly surrender the wisdom or knowledge these subsequent years had bestowed upon him. He had grown in ways he never thought possible, and while Time waited for no man, neither did Artham let Time simply march by. He had grabbed the clock by both hands and with all the passion of a desperate man and his flagging youth, made each tick and tock count.

In point of fact, he realized, he had not even investigated the tome he had recovered from last night’s dig. He had been so exhausted (and distracted by getting carried away with Geoffrey) that he had completely forgotten it. This realization was the last piece of motivation he required to haul himself to his feet. As he did so, he could swear he heard a creaking sound. He chuckled to himself, deriding his imagination for taking an unnecessary pot-shot at his aching joints. He stood and, placing his hands upon his hips, leaned backward in a long and exaggerated stretch. His spine screamed in protest, but quickly quietened as things finally loosened up. His enormous hat came loose and with a quiet paff landed upon the dusty ground. He bent over to pick it up and as he did so, heard another creak.

This time, he knew, it was not his imagination mocking him.

He straightened, knocking the dusty earth from the black satin of his feathered hat and pretended to not have noticed anything. Artham was no stranger to the streets of Luskan, and fancied himself fairly alert and savvy, but even so, he heard nothing at all. Birdsong continued unabated, as did the low droning of cicadas in the distance. No disturbances in any direction. A couple dozen yards away, Geoffrey stood unbothered, staring at nothing, a clump of particularly succulent grass being slowly chewed to a pulp.

So what, then, was creaking?

He received his answer shortly after as, once again, he heard the creaking and caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled toward the sound and motion, fingers tracing intricate patterns in the air. His voice crackled with the telltale hint of power inherent to spellcasting. "Obidie, bedua, val’kat!”
A moment later, a silvery sheen glistened into view, covering every fiber of his clothing and every inch of exposed skin. He stood ready, his hands still held aloft, ready for a follow-up cast. Who or whatever was out there would be receiving a stinging - and potentially lethal - lesson in manners if it chose not to slink off back into the woods.

Silence.

He held this stance, ready, alert, listening for what seemed hours. Clouds passed overhead and Geoffrey, seeing Artham so on edge, lolly-gagged over toward the man. Artham, seeing this out of his periphery, spared the horse a quick glance and hissed, trying to signal to keep away.

Alas, Geoffrey - the very embodiment of freedom - had a tumultuous relationship with orders, and largely ignored suggestions entirely. The massive horse clopped over heedless of the warning. Artham, for his part, swore quietly under his breath. He had just decided on a course of action and what spells would be needed when suddenly there came another creak and a flapping, shuffling sound. This time he spotted it directly, and so had Geoffrey.

With a frantic whinny, the horse reared and struck out - and down - at the movement, which had originated, curiously, from the back of the cart, under the leather tarpaulin Artham used to keep things from bouncing out over the comparatively shallow walls of the vehicle.

Hooves whistled through the air, smacking leather and wood with clamorous, hollow whumps. Artham couldn’t be certain considering the racket and movements generated by the startled horse, but it certainly looked like something under the tarp was trying to escape the barrage.

He whistled harshly, giving the sound an unusual edge with the tiniest hint of arcana. This uncharacteristic authority caught Geoffrey off guard, snapping his attention to Artham and mollifying the great beast.

Keeping his arms raised and hands ready, he spared a quick gesture to Geoffrey, urging the horse backward. Quietly, in nearly a whisper, Artham muttered a handful of short syllables along with a pair of sharp gestures. “Gorak. Vu’vocane.”

His blouse and trousers grew tighter and his silhouette took on a bulkier physique as the magicks took effect. He reached for his walking staff - a simple affair with some minor design choices to aid in self defense - which was propped up against the cart. With his free hand, he slowly untied one of the two knots holding the tarpaulin in place. As it came loose, he spared a glance toward Geoffrey, who had long since stopped chewing and seemed to be watching with breath nearly as bated as Artham’s. Taking one last moment to mentally steel himself for what was to come, Artham threw back the leather tarp.

Geoffrey’s head went back and up, threatening to rear once again in a panic, and Artham brought his staff to bear, magically enhanced strength and the Mage Armor from his first cast causing his form to ripple with deadly intent.

Lurking beneath the tarp was a collection of dented, ancient tableware, Dwarven tomes he had not yet begun to translate, shadows and a bit of dust.

Nothing? He thought to himself, puzzled.

He relaxed. “No, not nothing. Clearly a scavenger hoping for some morsels to pilfer. We must have simply missed it as it scampered off.” Artham heaved a heavy sigh, dispelling his wards and with them, the tension. He chuckled wearily, already drained from the adrenaline rush first thing in the morning, and gave the great horse a gentle pat on the side of the neck. “Were it a bandit, there is no doubt your mighty strikes would have pulverized him outright. No magicks required.”

Geoffrey, for his part, looked anything but bored. The horse’s eyes were wide, and it stared sidelong at the cart, muscles twitching and tense. He, it seemed, did not share in Artham’s newfound calm. Seeing this, Artham began scolding the horse for its stubbornness and urging it to calm down. “Come, now, we cannot suspect the cart of foul play forev–”
His scolding was interrupted by a flapping sound and a shrieking whinny. The mage dove aside as the horse reared once again, barely avoiding being caught in the crossfire. As he hit the ground hard, he rolled to look in the direction of the noise that had spooked Geoffrey.

He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

With what could only be described as a clumsy and desperate rhythm, a tome had sprung forth from his cart and was flapping away from them a few feet off the ground.

“What in the name of Deneir’s blessed beard is going on?!"

 

[Valawyn]

“What in the name of Deneir’s blessed beard is going on?!"

His shock completely overrode the ache in his joints from having been cast onto the hard ground mere moments ago. He leapt to his feet, staggering slightly with the effort and pain, sparing only the slimmest of moments to roughly shove his hat back and out of his vision. His eyes fully focused, finally, locking onto a swiftly moving target. Were he not seeing it with his own eyes, had it not persisted through several incredulous blinks, if it were not even in that very moment spooking his horse, Artham would have assumed he had gone quite mad. Moving at roughly a brisk jog’s pace, a dozen or so yards ahead of him, was a book.

A flying book.

A flying book heading for the nearest treeline.

“...Treeline. Treeline! Gods! Wait! Oh, bollocks and heavens!” He glanced briefly - very briefly - at Geoffrey, who was the very picture of agitation, then decided against even attempting to gain ground with the horse’s help.

He made a mad dash for it.

As if sensing this, the tome rose slightly and flapped more frantically, a cloud of ancient dust coming loose from its pages with the exertion. The two, a crimson-clad gentleman and his intended reading material, were suddenly locked into hot pursuit. “Not… Not gonna make it,” panted Artham, realizing that the treeline favored the tome. “How deep…?” He muttered, before saving his breath. Indeed, as he sprinted, he wracked his mind, trying to get his bearings. How deep was the treeline in this direction? Where was the road he had used to reach this clearing? He knew it was nearby, but he also knew the opposite side of the clearing led into a forest of significant depth indeed. If he wasn’t lucky… He forced the thought from his mind and poured yet more effort into his limbs, sheer force of will pushing aside the protestations of an aging physique. The tome appeared to be growing larger and he realized he was doing it; he was gaining ground. His eyes refocused again just beyond the book, as its plain and unassuming leather-bound cover crossed into the shadow of the treeline. A heartbeat later, and it was amongst the trees. A beat after that, Artham joined it. The shade was significant; this forest was old. Very old. The canopy had enjoyed many centuries of maturation, and little sunlight failed to be intercepted by thick, green foliage. Still, it was a bright and sunny day, and despite the trees’ best efforts, they could not render the ground beneath completely dark. He could see well enough to catch the wild movements of the floating, flapping tome as it wove its way between trunk and underbrush. His lungs burned fiercely, as did his legs. He was not a sedentary man, and had spent many years chasing mysteries and exciting finds, but those incidents had never been quite so literal of a chase. He was an archaeologist! A linguist! He was not a bloody sprinter!

He panted hard; practically gasping for air at this point. Feeling his stamina failing, a last ditch attempt came to mind. He spoke, this time neither in Common nor in Illuskan, but instead in breathless Dwarven: “S-stop! Wait! Mean you no harm… Friend. Please.”

The tome hesitated, coming nearly to a stop. Artham, far too tired to be able to apply the brakes so quickly, was helpless before his own momentum. He barged into the floating book at nearly full speed, breaking free of the treeline into the sunny open sky, slamming face-and-book-first into something significantly softer and more indignant than a tree. As he hit the ground once again, dazed and exhausted, the last thing he saw was an enormously thick, black, leather-bound book careening down at him.

“...just lie there or are you going to help me pick these up?” Asked a woman’s voice. Artham blinked several times. He didn’t remember going to sleep. He blinked again, then frowned deeply. He didn’t remember fighting a bugbear, either, and yet he certainly felt the aftermath. “Rude and useless, I see. The others are going to leave without me at this point, and it’s going to be your fault. Men, these days. You would think their mothers would teach them manners, but no, they just teach them to sprint out of the woods at women,” muttered the woman’s voice. There was a hint of exertion to it, as she worked to collect armful after armful of books.

Books!

Artham sat bolt-upright. “Oh, decided to help have you? Well a bit late for that, I’ve nearly finished. You could at least have said you’re sorry instead of just lying there groaning. Really, you’re lucky I didn’t have a shiv on me. You never know what could have happened. I have really great reflexes, you know,” she continued on, as much for herself as anything else. As she spoke, the top several books from the stack in her arms slid loose. She made a desperate grab for them, but missed badly, sending the rest tumbling back to the dusty road. “Okay maybe not really great, but the point stands. Could’ve gotten yourself stabbed. You had no way of knowing I wouldn’t stab first, ask questions never. You didn’t even stop to ask. You don’t know!” She wagged a finger at him, her thick, coppery locks bouncing as if to concur with her indignant rage.

Artham rubbed his forehead, feeling the welt even through his gloves. “Madam, I am… I am not entirely certain what just transpired,” he began, casting his eyes around once more. He gaze fixated on a particularly large, black, leather-bound book. His forehead throbbed in response. “...Ah,” he grumbled, putting two and two together. But wait! He flipped over, now on all fours, instantly frantic, looking in all directions. “The book! Did you see…?” He stopped, still on all fours, then slowly made eye contact with the woman, who had an armful of roughly a dozen books, and had been about to unceremoniously dump them back onto a cart containing many, many dozens more. They locked eyes, and her expression was plain to read, as if it were itself a book whose pages had nothing kind to say about his intelligence. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, and quickly scrambled to his feet. “N-not these books. A different… You know, why don’t I just help you? I feel like that would be the next best move,” he mumbled sheepishly, as the fiery-headed woman stared at him with an irritable incredulity that burned just as fiercely as Artham’s face. As he gathered the remaining tomes with the woman he had barreled into, he kept his eyes wide open for any signs of his quarry. He could hardly believe how terrible his luck had been. Every other book he looked at was a plain leather-bound affair, nearly identical to the one he had been chasing. It would take him days of perusing in order to locate the one he had chased.

As the pair finished, Artham stood tall and straight, stretching and rolling his shoulders. He patted himself down, straightening his clothing and posture, then cleared his throat. “Madam, I am terribly sorry for my earlier behavior; I promise you, I am not wont to madly dash at people from out of forests. I beg that you believe I had good cause to be in such a rush and that encountering you like this was entirely accidental. I would like to begin again, if you would allow it. My name is Artham. Artham Ekaitz.” As he finished, he dipped his head in a subtle, polite bow. He spoke with sincerity and very deliberate humility. The woman simply waved it all off. “Just a ‘sorry’ would’ve sufficed,” she said, before adding, “You can call me Elizabeth. Full name’s Elizabeth Bardia.” She pushed an unruly coppery lock out of her face as she spoke, only for it to fall right back where it had been; this cycle repeated at least twice before she simply surrendered to the whims of her hair. “Normally I would say it is good to meet you, Elizabeth, but in this particular case it would feel presumptuous at best, or undeserved at worst.” Again, Elizabeth simply waved the sentiment away. “At least you aren’t a bandit, or you are and you’re a terrible one. I’m fine either way. However, I need to get caught up to the rest of my caravan now, so if you could… Not… Be in the way anymore…” She muttered, pointedly eyeing Artham and lifting the modest wooden gate on her cart back into place. As she was inspecting the straps linking the cart to her horse’s saddle, something caught her eye. “Oh, brilliant,” she grumbled, holding up a snapped length of leather. Her gaze swiveled back to Artham, carrying with it a not-insignificant sum of blame.

He smiled back, sheepishly.

She stared back, blankly.

He cleared his throat, also sheepishly. “I uh… If you wait here for just a moment, I have a cart and horse of my own nearby. I should be able to replace that binding and get you caught up to your fellows. Just stay here with your belongings and I shall return shortly. Yes? Agreeable?” He asked hopefully.

Elizabeth simply narrowed her eyes and folded her arms.

“Good! Grand! Fabulous! Just, uh, don’t take your eyes off the cart? Yes? Not that you would. Or that you shouldn’t, I should say. Feel free to use your eyes as you like, I mean. Uh. …Right, be back soon,” muttered Artham before shuffling stiffly off back toward the clearing from whence he’d come.

He would collect Geoffrey and his own cart and accompany this Elizabeth only as long as it took to find the enchanted tome hiding in its lucky camouflage. Once he had the tome in hand, he could get back to life as usual. Specifically, learning what secrets it held within.

Yes, soon he would be delving into deepest Dwarven lore. Who could say what dweomers lay dormant, waiting to be learned or utilized? He rubbed his gloved hands eagerly together, grinning at the thought, as he crossed back into the clearing to see Geoffrey lying on his side in the dust, lazily kicking at the open air, clearly completely unconcerned by the frantic flight his master had left in. Artham rolled his eyes. His work was cut out for him; he just hoped Elizabeth didn’t figure out another solution and leave without him.

With a sigh, Artham set about readying to depart.

​

 

[Valawyn]

It had been an easy task mending the leather strap; in truth, Elizabeth’s cart would have most likely made it to its destination even without mending. The load was comparatively light, and the rest of her horse’s tack was sound. The two found themselves riding side by side, their horse-drawn carts of a similar, modest, size. Both were covered by an oiled leather tarpaulin, purely to protect their contents. Unlike Artham’s, however, Elizabeth’s cart featured an oiled leather lining for the bed of the cart as well. It was clear that the vehicle was quite specifically intended to transport goods which were susceptible to water damage. Likely other written works, or perhaps paintings. Artham found himself intrigued by this; he himself did not often transport more than a handful of documents, tomes, journals or the like at any given time. Usually only his own spellbook, and anything of particular interest he stumbled across in his digs. So, to see such a dedication to the transport of books piqued his curiosity. “What brings a young lady such as yourself out to a lonely stretch of road such as this?” He asked, unable to resist the urge to pry. They were moving at a fairly brisk trot, one which was slowly growing more and more brisk, as Geoffrey’s patience eroded over time, and Elizabeth’s own horse felt obligated to match pace. They would be caught up with Elizabeth’s caravan in less than an hour, certainly, and in the meantime Artham found himself wishing to learn more. Perhaps it was a sense of kindred spirits, or perhaps it was simply too much time spent alone in the wilds with nothing but a horse to talk to. Either way, Artham felt the need to pry. “What manner of caravan do you travel with?” He added quickly.

Elizabeth let out a sharp exhalation; a sigh, perhaps? Artham could not be certain. “We travel between Baldur’s Gate and Northern Amn. It’s a caravan of Oghmites and Deneirans -” Artham’s brows raised, at this. “Who trade in the written word and various artworks. Scribing, having things scribed, selling instructional manuals, auctioning to collectors, you name it. Anything that will both fund their own activities and also promote the preservation of knowledge.” Elizabeth waved her hand vaguely. “Opportunistic at its core, but highly specialized. Candlekeep being along the route certainly helps. We enter as Seekers whenever we’re able. We try to keep a reciprocal relationship with the monks there. For every tome we request a copy of, we try to provide one.” Another sharp exhalation. Definitely a sigh, Artham decided. He detected a sort of wistful dissatisfaction in it. “You do not approve?” He asked, hazarding a guess.

“Approve?” She finally looked in his direction and shrugged. “What’s not to approve of? No, of course I approve. And I benefit from accompanying them and aiding them, it just lacks… Focus, I suppose.” She shrugged again, this time with a hint of embarrassment. “I truly have nothing to complain about. It gets me out to see the world, I have all this,” she gestured back at her covered cart, the contents of which - as Artham was perfectly aware of - was entirely books. “And it isn’t as if I’ve learned nothing.” Yet another shrug; this time of resignation. Artham tugged at his bearded chin, leaning back against the seat of his cart. Geoffrey’s reins sat, unattended, upon his lap. The horse would move at his own pace one way or another; he saw little point in distracting himself with fighting it. After a moment of consideration, he spoke tentatively, hazarding a second guess. “You have not learned nothing, but you wish to learn more. More of what, though? Something more specific, perhaps?” His voice carried a clear, genuine note of curiosity. He wished to know for the simple pleasure of understanding. Elizabeth turned more fully in her seat, facing the crimson-and-black clad gentleman. She leaned in almost imperceptibly; only enough to accentuate the fervor of her next words. “I wish to learn magic. Proper magic. Not the sleight of hand of carnival performers. I wish to speak words of power and alter the world around me. To conjure elements and creatures. And I wish to do it without having to search for scraps.” She once again gestured at the cart she rode.

Artham grinned wide. “Ah-hah, I see. You are happy for the knowledge you have acquired, but these tomes are as likely to mention magical theory as they are to be about the best practices of harvesting turnips.” He nodded. “I can certainly understand your frustration, and your gratitude.” His grin faded to a kindly, empathetic smile. “If you feel yourself to be ungrateful for these thoughts and feelings, cast such concerns aside. It is perfectly valid to feel as you do, and it is not a reflection of the value of your current endeavors.” He settled further back into his seat, his expression friendly and understanding, but otherwise unreadable. Elizabeth, for her part, simply regarded him silently for several long moments before settling back into her own seat, her mind almost immediately occupied by thoughts of her future.

​

Elizabeth’s introductions between Artham and the rest of her caravan had been brief and somewhat curt. There was a curious sort of friendly tension between her and the rest of the group. He could only guess that the assembled scholar-merchants had long ago surmised Elizabeth’s inner disquiet and dissatisfaction. It was clear she had endeavored to keep it to herself, but proximity and time brings insight to all, even the most clueless. There was no resentment between them, but Artham noticed that the young woman received many lingering looks from her fellows, all of them seemingly carrying a mixture of melancholy and expectation.

It would seem that everyone knew Elizabeth would be leaving them soon, except Elizabeth herself.

Curiouser and curiouser indeed.

But he had allowed himself to become distracted. He had an objective, and it was to locate his lost quarry. Things had gone from bad to worse, as he was now surrounded on all sides by carts and trunks and wagons full to the brim with journals and tomes and scrolls. Normally he would be overjoyed by what he was seeing - and part of him still was - but his job of finding a needle in a haystack had just become more akin to finding a needle in a needlestack.

He could only hope that he would have an opportunity to go through Elizabeth’s cart during the night, before any opportunity to slip out into the greater caravan presented itself.

​

“...the bloody Nine Hells is it?” Came an irritable, muffled voice, followed by quiet shuffling and light thumps. Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered open; the voice was familiar, but only a little. Memories of the day prior flooded back, and she bolted upright. Glancing around and seeing the ring of wagons remained dark, still and silent, she quickly shuffled out of her bedroll and tent and hurried toward her cart. As she rounded the corner of a wagon, it came into view. Bobbing to-and-fro atop a pair of crimson shoulders was a wide, black hat replete with fluffy feather, as the man named Artham frantically dug through her belongings. He was not stuffing anything into a bag or satchel, but instead seemed to be quickly checking and discarding tome after tome after tome. In fact, he immediately discarded anything larger, more ornate or colored differently. He seemed to only have eyes for the most plain bindings. Despite her annoyance at his invasion of privacy, her immediate distrust of his actions and having been woken up in the middle of the night, she could not help but find the specificity of his search to be intriguing, and that curiosity did wonders to sublimate what might otherwise have been a desire to sound the alarm. Instead, she opted to simply creep up on the man, who was entirely engrossed in his task.

​

“I don’t carry nursery rhymes, if you’re having trouble sleeping,” came a voice behind him.

Artham practically leapt out of his skin, losing his hat and knocking over a stack of books in the process. Out of force of habit, his hands flew into a quick series of gestures as he hurriedly chanted, “Obidie, bedua, val–” He halted, the familiarity of the voice settling in, and he turned to look at the speaker. He exhaled, releasing the breath meant for spellcasting. “Elizabeth…!” He intoned breathily. “Gods above, you startled me.”

The woman eyed him through narrowed, suspicious lids. “What was that,” she asked flatly, the tone of her voice barely a question. “I had no intention of stealing anything, in case you were concerned with that. It’s seldom I get the opportunity to peruse so many interesting tomes! I didn’t wish to bother you while you slept. Had I found anything I had to have I would ha–” He was interrupted by the woman’s brows knitting fiercely together, their coppery color and that of her hair shining a pale rose-gold in the silvery white moonlight. She waved all of his proffered explanation aside, then pointed at his hands. “What was that,” she repeated.

Artham glanced at his gloved hands. From one, then to the other. He stammered, “I– I am not certain I know what you mean? I had nothing in my hands when y–”

Elizabeth’s scowl grew deeper. “The gestures. The words. What were you about to do? No games. I am not a stupid peasant girl, and I will brook no insult to my intelligence.”

Artham in return almost seemed relieved. It had not been his intention to deceive her; instead he had been genuinely uncertain what she had meant. “Not to worry, it was an entirely defensive cast. Something to toughen my exterior and make it less likely to suffer wounds,” he said with a calming tone.

Elizabeth stared.

“A cast,” she repeated.

“A defensive one,” he confirmed.

“Magic.”

“Well, yes.”

“Magic that you know how to do.”

“...That is correct, yes.”

Elizabeth scooped up the nearest tome and hurled it directly at Artham’s face.

 

[Valawyn]

Artham’s vision was swallowed up by the hefty tome’s thick spine as - being completely off-guard - he caught the thrown book fully on the bridge of his nose.

The dark of night was suddenly lit by brutal starbursts; his vision narrowed to a darkened tunnel and the scent of copper and iron filled his nostrils. The pain seemed the last to arrive, as if his nerves, too, had been caught unawares. He tumbled over backward deeper into the cart, several pillars of precariously-stacked books toppling onto his prone form, bouncing off his chest and arms and hands, which were clasped tightly to his pained face and nose. An agonized, muffled, moaning-wail escaped from between his gloved fingers, as well as a few flecks of blood.

“What the fuck is that?” Came Elizabeth’s voice. Still lying on his back, squirming beneath a thick layer of books, Artham - muffled and nasally - spat back “Probably my blood, you vicious harpy!” He took a sharp breath inward in order to moan and continue berating the woman when she clarified her question: “Is… Is that book flying?”

Artham was instantly on his feet, trampling several tomes with the heels of his boots, frantically shaking off the dizziness and trying to get his eyes to focus on Elizabeth’s rapidly retreating form. He stumbled forward, sliding unsteadily on the book-laden floor of the cart. This unsteady footing and his own disorientation caused him to tumble over the side of the cart rather than dismount it with any sort of grace. He hit the ground with a windy thud, groaning in pain and from a sudden lack of breath. His eyes remained locked on Elizabeth as he desperately clambered to his feet once more and, with an agonized gait, rushed - to the best of his ability - toward her. He was only a dozen or so paces behind, but the wagons and tents created a confusing series of labyrinthine twists and turns, and he lost sight of her several times during his pursuit, albeit only for split seconds at a time. Elizabeth rounded a corner only for Artham to follow a mere heartbeat later, all but sprinting in an attempt to catch up to the woman and more importantly, the object she was pursuing.

As he rounded the corner, though, he saw that she had come to a stop. Momentum carried him directly into the woman a second time, slamming her into the sturdy but yielding side of a tent, and sending him careening backward from the rebound. He lost his footing and fell yet again, flat on his back, staring up at the night sky, his beard stiffening with drying blood, every joint in his body screaming in purest, hateful agony. In this moment, beaten, bleeding and bookless, he found himself empathizing with children he had seen throwing temper tantrums in markets over the years.
In this moment, briefly though it may be, he simply... got it.

The thought passed as quickly as it came as he heard Elizabeth’s voice only a few feet away mutter “Huh… Lost it.”

His heart sank further, if that were even possible.

Artham heard soft footsteps approach before being nudged. He lifted his head slowly with a groan to see Elizabeth standing over him, having nudged his booted heel. “Was that what you were looking for?” She asked, her expression unreadable.

He let his head flop back onto the ground - too hard, in fact, eliciting another groan - and gave a shrug, followed by a dejected and elongated “Yep.”

Elizabeth continued. “So… Probably shouldn’t have let it get away, huh?”

“...Yep.”

“Sorry about your nose.”

“Yep.”

“You’re pretty upset right now, I can tell.”

At this, Artham simply began to roll over and attempt to stand. He felt more beaten and bloodied than he had felt in many years. The all-encompassing ache and fatigue reminded him of his time in Luskan, when…

He shook his head, refusing to let his mind wander down those dark paths. As he knelt, his gloved hands still in the grass, trying to summon the strength to rise from his position on all fours, he felt an arm hook round his own. Elizabeth had wordlessly approached his side and lent a helping hand. Even so, rising was a considerable effort for the beleaguered gentleman.

“I’ll help you look for it?” She offered as much as she asked. Artham, however, was clearly in no mood or shape to discuss the matter.

“My tent, if you please.”

Sheepishly, Elizabeth nodded and helped him limp back to his tent to rest.

​

“Murann, you say?” Muttered Artham, gingerly pulling the bright crimson red blouse on over a fresh undershirt. From the other side of the tent flap, he heard Elizabeth’s voice give confirmation. “And how many days of travel will that be?” He inquired, half-heartedly, placing his hat upon his head. He lifted the tent flap out of the way and stepped out into the bright daylight, the brim of his hat saving his tired eyes from the sting of the sun. He still ached, and his movements were sluggish and strained. Elizabeth replied in a manner more gentle than she had bothered to since he had met her. “A couple of days… Weather holds, should be a quick journey.”

Artham nodded, keeping his head and hat low. He felt hungover despite not having partaken. He started to step backward, back into his tent, but paused. “Your companions in this caravan… They would trust you more than I to make this request. Try to find it hiding amongst their stock. Once we reach town, the opportunities for it to slip away unseen will be too many to count. If we do not locate it before then, I fear it will never be found.” He retreated back into his tent without waiting for a response. Elizabeth was left to stare at the tent flap, wringing her hands anxiously. With a sharp breath, she turned away and steeled her gaze. She strode away with determination in her step.

Inside the tent, Artham’s hat hung once more from a peg on the tent’s frame.

He sat on a small, wooden folding stool and stared into a small mirror atop another small, folding wooden piece of furniture. A vanity which he used to maintain his appearance. And right now, his appearance was haggard. He barely recognized himself. Deep lines were gouged into the flesh of his face and forehead. Age and worry had already done more than their fair share of work. He stared at himself in the mirror, at the man he had become. At his side, propped against the stool upon which he sat, was his satchel. He reached in, pulling out his spellbook. He set the optimistically-large tome upon his lap and let it flop open limply, its pages falling hither and thither before coming to rest. He stared at a blank page only a short way into the tome for several seconds, before giving a derisive snort and tossing the book away dismissively.

All the running, all the danger and all the pain, and for what? A mostly-empty spellbook, and nothing else to show for it. He looked back into the mirror again, tracing the lines on his once-hale face with his eyes.
Men his age were fathers and artisans.
Owned farms or businesses.
Had legacies to leave, even if only for a few generations.
What had he to leave behind?
What mark would he make?
What impact could he hope to have?

He could not even save one person.
He knew he couldn’t, because he had already tried, and failed.

He stared at the unrecognizable man in the mirror, and remembered.

A door on battered hinges. A broken crib. A splash of crimson upon a worn wooden floor.

And a note, addressed to him.

​

The next morning, Artham had physically recovered from his many recent trials and tribulations. He packed his things, his tent and folding furniture collapsing down into a trunk small enough to sit comfortably at the head of his modest cart. Elizabeth approached, waving to him. “Good morning,” She said, neutrally. There was an awkward stiffness to it which indicated she still felt some guilt for what had transpired. Despite his immense disappointment, he knew she bore no meaningful guilt for those events, and so when he turned to face her, he gave a pained but reassuring smile. “Good morning, Elizabeth. I take it from your tone of voice that you have had no luck locating what was lost?”

In response, Elizabeth once again began to wring her hands anxiously. “N-no, not as such, but even though we’re to resume travel shortly, there is still time to search! I can dig through a wagon or two before we reach the city gates.”
At this, Artham nodded and tried not to show any signs of disappointment.
“A-and just because we arrive in Murann doesn’t mean we’re doomed! Maybe someone there will spot it and sound the alarm and we can get to it first!” She added, sensing his dashed hopes.

“Perhaps you are right. I thank you for continuing to attempt to find the tome,” he said, finishing cinching down the ties securing his traveling trunk to the cart.

Elizabeth took one or two tentative steps closer, and spoke haltingly, clearly unsure of herself and of the correctness of her forthcoming request.
“L-listen, Artham. I… I will help you track it down, no matter how far it’s gotten from you. My… The skills I’ve learned from working with the caravan, and from my time in my parents’ shop will no doubt help! I’ll dedicate myself to helping you recover it, but…”

There came a prolonged pause as she struggled to force the remainder of the words out. At this, Artham finally turned to face her, and, standing silently, simply crossed his arms and waited.

Discomfort won over modesty and anxiety and Elizabeth blurted out her request:
“Please teach me what you can about magic.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth as if it had acted of its own accord, her face going nearly as red as her hair.

Despite being drained by the emotional highs and lows of the past several nights, Artham found himself smiling a wry but genuinely amused smile.
“You wish to become my apprentice and think that undoing your own mistake is sufficient payment for my tutelage?” He asked, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

Elizabeth balked, the redness in her face draining away rapidly. “N-no! I can certainly, I mean, I hadn’t thought… But of course! I wouldn’t possibly think that would suffice, I m-mean how ludicro–”

Artham held up a gloved hand and grinned wide. “I accept these terms. You ply your skills and time to help me recover what was lost, and I will teach you what I can. I am no master; I am barely what you might consider a journeyman. But my knowledge is yours.” He pointed at his still-slightly-swollen face. “Teasing you was necessary after you nearly gave me a pair of black eyes. I’m amazed I don’t resemble a raccoon right at this very moment.”

He laughed heartily at his own mischief and turned back to readying his cart for departure, while Elizabeth stood, wrestling with a cloying mix of emotions of her own.

​

“No, no. Like this,” chided Artham, making a quick gesture with his hand and muttering a word which resonated with a quiet echo of power. “Obidai.”

From his upturned palm shot a small but painfully hot gout of flame. “Flare. Very simple. Not even a proper spell in the usual sense, really. A single gesture, a single word. Using it doesn’t even erode one’s memory of the ‘spell’. We call things like these ‘cantrips’. Generally speaking, you’re not going to be winning any fights with these. But if you’re clever, they can make your life easier. And if you’re very clever, they might be enough to dissuade someone from fighting.”

Elizabeth listened intently, her eyes flicking back and forth from Artham’s face and his gloved palm as he spoke. There was an intensity there which he found familiar and encouraging. This was no whim pursued by a lackadaisical pupil. Elizabeth craved knowledge and understanding in a way he had never seen in anyone other than himself.

He paused his speaking, then gave Elizabeth a single nod. “Try again.”

Her brow furrowed, Elizabeth snapped off a sharp gesture and spoke.
“Obidai.”
Her voice echoed with faint but unmistakable power, and a gout of flame erupted from her upturned palm, its heat and light perhaps even more intense than the one he himself had conjured.

Artham leapt to his feet upon the cart, hauling Elizabeth up by the shoulders, giving her a firm and excited shake. “Yes! You’ve got it! Bravo!” He gave an excited whoop and launched into another explanation of some other concept. Elizabeth, however, was not listening.

She stared at her palm, at the hand from whence fire had sprung out of nothing, as her pulse pounded through her ears, and smiled.

​

The city walls loomed high, though not so high as other cities which sparsely dotted the Sword Coast. He had seen many of them. Neverwinter, Waterdeep, Baldur’s Gate and a few besides. Names which were known to all but the most sheltered of peasants, even hundreds of miles inland.

Still, coming upon civilization after an extended period of time in the wilderness was always a special feeling. The press of mortal ingenuity bore down on him as the walls grew closer and larger. Industry, technology, culture and tradition all beggared and pulled at his eager-but-limited attention span. He noted as much as he could about Muranni masonry, of the heraldries of flags and pennants flying, of the manner of dress of guardsmen, the demeanor of the passing townsfolk. His eyes flitted about, gathering up as much information as they could.
These moments were special.
A new place, a new people.
New things to learn and discover.

He cherished the feeling of comfort that came from the mastery of a place and its cultures and people. The familiarity had a pleasant warmth to it.

But these moments? He lived for them.

He lived not for the knowing, but for that which he didn’t, and for those who might deign to teach him.

Artham found himself smiling peaceably; pleased by new sights and sounds. As the caravan rolled through the front gates, guardsmen peeking into wagons and carts and seeing nothing of interest - he doubted very much any of them were avid readers - Artham caught a familiar face out of the corner of his eye. A quick flash, nothing more. He whipped ‘round in the seat of his cart, scanning the crowd.

Nothing. No one.

Save for a kindly-looking woman, stood alone at a market stall, swaddled babe held tightly to her chest; a too-small basket in her other hand, filled too sparingly with food.

The notes of the bustle, the melody of the market and its people suddenly fell sour upon his ears.
The face he thought he had seen, the woman he now observed…
They were not the same, but that did not mean they bore no similarity.
He saw the same desperation hiding behind her eyes.
The same brave attempt to keep up appearances; to maintain an air of normality.

The caravan was signaled to move fully through the gate, and Artham turned back forward. His prior high spirits were replaced instead by a grim determination. His thoughts drifted to why he had left Luskan, and to what he had let be taken from him. He reminded himself why he delved into those deepest reaches, why he risked life and limb to find scraps of the past. He reminded himself of his helplessness and the consequences of it, and of his cowardice in fleeing.

What was done was done, that much was true, but the future could yet be decided. He may have fled Luskan like a coward, powerless before the grim reality of life, but he had made a promise to himself that he would not rest until he could stand strong and tall on behalf of those who could not.


Despite this, he did not consider himself a hero, nor even an aspiring one. In truth, his desires felt anything but heroic. As the caravan rolled forward and Artham’s modest cart shook and bobbed over the cobbled streets of Murann, Artham knew exactly what he wanted, and why.

Power, for fear of further loss.

​

Elizabeth had set about her search for the lost tome immediately. Artham, meanwhile, had secured lodgings for them both, temporary though they may be. He had decided that this town would serve as well as any other to work out of. There was plenty of wilderness in all directions, and with Elven presence in the region for as long as any could remember, he was certain there was archaeological value to be found as well.

While the enchanted tome may never be found, there would always be others; mayhap even greater finds than that which had been lost. He had determined to put the matter out of his mind and stay focused.

There was ever more work to be done.


Fin.


For now.​